The Beast of the North

by Alaric Longward

  ‘Well, there is this thing. I forgot to ask for the passphrase.’

  They stared at me in utter stupefaction. ‘What?’ Kallir asked with hysterical incredulity and despair, his voice growing thin as a child’s. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

  ‘Well, no,’ I sulked. ‘And you didn’t have to kill them so fast!’

  Molun snorted. ‘They would never speak even if you tried to force them to, Maskan,’ Kallir spat. ‘They are proud like that, like idiots, they would not say a word. Some say they give dark oaths to the king, and they fall dead before betraying those oaths. Never been to the army, I dunno! And besides, we would have had to force both of them to speak. One of them knows one word, the other knows the other one of the phrase, and now it’s too late. So, what do you propose?’ Their looks told me they knew the answer.

  I was quiet for a while, shaking in my shoes. I croaked and shook my head. ‘I go back and try to get in anyway?’

  ‘You go back there and try to get in anyway. Shit!’ Molun moaned. ‘I cannot believe you messed this up. An ass would have done a better job!’

  ‘Right,’ I said and agreed with him. I turned on my heels, marched back, and opened the door. I took some brave steps forward and grasped the handle of the knocker. And then I banged it down.

  A shriek could be heard from the other side. Then shuffling. ‘God’s vomit! Why did you do that? Just knock it gently!’

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said thinly, preparing to bolt.

  ‘Right. Go on then,’ the voice said and waited.

  I was quiet, waiting and sweating.

  There was no sound, none for the longest time until the voice could be heard muttering something. Finally it spoke though tentatively. ‘The answer to the puzzle, my lord?’

  I shook my head. Puzzle. I had hope. ‘Voice the puzzle.’

  Silence. Then a curse. ‘Why? That’s just stupid. I know you, you know me, and why don’t you just say the words so we can get on with this?’

  I straightened my back. ‘The Lord Commander has concerns, cur.’

  ‘The Lord Commander Helstrom?’ the voice asked with some puzzlement. ‘Why would the Butcher be worried? And don’t you work for Master of the Trade, Gal Talien?’

  I gathered myself and bleated out an explanation. ‘I do. But Lord Commander oversees the security of the king’s works. He is worried about the mint. He made this abundantly clear. He wanted all our names, even.’ I bit my lip, afraid I was going too far.

  ‘He is worried?’ the voice wondered. ‘It is the mint. They make the coin here. There is a door. Guards out there and in here.’ In there? I cursed. The voice went on with a happy tone. ‘Nothing is safer unless it’s the royal anus. Though I don't know anything about such matters. They say they are all drunk most of the time in the Tower, and so perhaps the royal anus is not–’

  I went on and tried to steady my nerves. My life suddenly felt like a rolling boulder; jumping wildly downhill with no constraints and hope of a happy conclusion. ‘Be that as it may, there have been many raids in the higher levels of Dagnar lately, and his is busily squeezing pimples.’

  ‘I am not sure,’ the voice said with some apprehension, ‘why I would care for Crec Helstrom’s pimples.’

  I laughed roughly. ‘We are the pimples. All of us. He is tightening the rules, breaking heads of those who ignore them. He got rid of his scribe, and the reason was that the scribe had no ink in his bottle when it was checked. Either he worked too hard, or not at all, or nobody cared to ask. Don’t be like the scribe. We will do these things properly. You are supposed to tell me the puzzle, and I’m supposed to answer it, and that is the proper way of doing it.’ Let it be so, I prayed.

  There was a snort. ‘And since when have you cared for proper ways, you noble wart? I bet he is squeezing the high, fine, and useless nasties as well as the low ones.’

  ‘Do you wish to find work down in the harbor, perhaps in the Department of Streets and Cleanliness?’ I asked him, not sure there was one. ‘I like my job. I like being a lord.’

  A snort. ‘I’m just a guard! I can hardly be demoted … fine!’ the voice said, deciding the job was too good to change into street sweeping duties after all. Then the man adopted a mocking, nasal, official tone. ‘Today’s puzzle then. “They hide in a smelly house by day, at night they finally come out to play,”’

  I thought of Lith. ‘Whores?’

  ‘Your lordship would think so! But give me the answer, and I’ll open the doors,’ the voice giggled, a bit bored.

  I was thinking furiously. ‘Rats?’ I said quickly, as I thought of Molun and Kallir.

  The voice was losing its humor. ‘You know, Lord Pimple, that if we go by the protocol, I should now ring the bells for an alarm. Then I shall get a raise, and you will be squeezed, and there will be a new Lord of Coin and Mint while you cry in the dungeons. They will run you down if you are a thief, stretch you and rip your balls off, hang you and before all of that, they will cut your toes—’

  ‘Your toes,’ I breathed and heard the voice cursing inside.

  A latch could be heard moving. The door swung out, and a very small, bald, and wrinkled man scowled at me. ‘Yes, your toes. But—’

  ‘Shut up,’ I breathed and pushed past him. ‘Be happy I won’t have you try the Drop. Now, let us get to work.’

  ‘You have very little work, my lord. As usual,’ the door guard said, holding out a leather apron to me.

  ‘Coming from someone who opens the door twice a day, that is rich,’ I dared to speculate and learned I was right for the small man’s face soured. I stared around the room and ignored the apron. There was only one. In the room, there were ten people and the guard, all staring at me. They were craftsmen the lot, all were burly, stoic and wore aprons over bared chests. So did the guard. I noticed there were cauldrons where the dies were heated and they gave off an arid smell. ‘All ready?’ I asked the small man and cleared my throat to make myself heard.

  ‘Your coat?’ the door guard whined. ‘Your apron awaits.’ He shook it in my face.

  ‘I’ll keep my coat today. I’m feeling chilly. Must be catching a cold,’ I said uncomfortably.

  ‘Mustn’t keep a coat in here, my lord,’ he said stubbornly. ‘King’s laws. Prevents thievery.’

  ‘Come, now,’ I said. ‘I said I am sick.’

  He nodded though he looked about to argue. Instead, he spat and laughed. ‘You are diseased, Lord,’ the man snickered. ‘Twitch always told you to beware the women of questionable repute; he did.’

  ‘Did you?’ I asked him icily, disliking him greatly. He was eyeing the room. ‘So, any problems?’

  ‘No, no problems at all unless it be the Master of the Mint who is sick,’ Twitch said. ‘We are going to mint twenty thousand gold coins today. They have the anvil and hammer dies though Gillan’s set is not the best quality. Might break.’

  I nodded and eyed the dies they would use to hammer on both sides of the gold coins. There were boxes of prepared gold flans by the several desks in the huge room, casks of ale and servings of food on large platters to the side table. At the far end, iron-barred windows were facing the northern mountains over the Drop and there, on the right side of the room, there was a worn trapdoor where you could see scuff marks in the stone. That was where they brought the precious, official dies of Red Midgard and the flans to the mint and took out the coins as well for the Tower of the Temple. I shuddered and nodded at the lot. ‘Begin? Go on!’

  They all looked uncertain and morose.

  ‘They should be allowed to break their fast first,’ Twitch said softly and with some hostility. ‘If we are now sticklers for the rules and all of that shit, they should eat. And you should inspect their dies as well.’

  ‘I’ll not bother, and you keep your mouth shut,’ I told him and stood up higher to address the lot. ‘Yes, eat away, and then to work!’ I yelled. They twitched, but none moved. I walked around, keeping a stoic eye on everything and noticed a des
k and a plush, huge chair on the side that was apparently mine. I sweated as I stared at the glittering boxes full of gold, pondered at the wealth it would grant one if one were free to use it as one pleased. I noticed the workers were still staring at me.

  ‘Lord Naram,’ Twitch said darkly. ‘The bell.’

  ‘The bell indeed,’ I said, seeking one, desperately craning my neck around.

  ‘Have you hit your head, Lord? Fell off the whore’s bunk?’ Twitch asked with suspicion. ‘Your voice is sort of thick.’

  ‘I said I am feeling sick, didn’t I?` I pointed out and spotted a tiny silver bell Twitch was holding my way while scowling mightily.

  I grabbed it, rang it, starting the day and decided I was not hungry. I eyed the fabulous fare set on the table. There was fowl, cuts of boar and venison, steaming amidst vegetables. ‘Eat!’ I said and pointed at the plates of food.

  ‘Lord?’ asked one of the artisans. ‘That is your food. We eat the gruel.’ He nodded at a vat of gray, featureless slop set near their desk. There was some ale there also, in a small barrel.

  ‘Eat that then,’ I told them with a nod, feeling like a rudderless ship. Twitch smelled the air, like a dog sensing trouble, his thick brow set in a permanents frown.

  The men shuffled for the pot of gruel, and I sauntered over to the side after all. I smelled the delicate fragrances of the meats, a succulent fare that was apparently meant for me, and somewhat reluctantly I took some slices of meat. I was terrified I was making a mistake again. I poured some wine from a decanter and considered the men. They were whispering to each other as they ladled the strange pale colored porridge onto their cups, adding some butter and stealing envious glances at me. No, at my food, I decided. They were disappointed, and quite naturally so, suffering the shit while Naram ate like a king. They were avoiding my stare. I nodded. Why not? ‘Come, take the rest. I will need to grow thinner. Take the wine as well.’

  ‘You do look like you gained some weight, Lord,’ Twitch said suspiciously. ‘In the shoulders, even.’

  ‘Eat, you mongrel,’ I told him, haughtily as a lord would. ‘Stop spewing nonsense.’

  He frowned at me, shrugged at the artisans, grabbed a cup of his own and filled it with food and the others followed, nodding at me gratefully and with humility, their eyes cast down. They heaped meats and bread on top of their disgusting gruel and smiled like children. Apparently, Naram was not a gracious lord, and I felt some satisfaction at being able to give them some happiness. I nearly choked on a bit of a fowl, for I realized something. Happiness, aye, before I would knock them out, I thought and brushed the bottle in my pocket. Most were hunkered over their tables, and so, perhaps, none would die, after all. I ate in peace, the men enjoyed themselves, eating with wild gusto and enjoyed wine that was excellent. I eyed their ale with some desire but decided getting drunk was not a good idea. The artisans were thick around my wine, though, smiling happily.

  I looked around, wondering what to do. Twitch had the key to the outer door. Overall, the job was not hard. I would have to find a place where they relieved themselves, break the bottle in the room, escape to the room, and hang onto the doorknob and wait.

  I looked around.

  I did not see any other rooms. None. There was a bucket in the corner.

  I winked Twitch over. He was cursing under his breath as he had to lay his fare on the ground next to the door. He had a simple chair and no desk. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I have to take a leak.’

  He looked at me with deep confusion for a time and then visibly shook himself. He forced himself to delve deeper into the mystery. ‘Yes?’ he asked slowly. I stammered a bit, and his face turned into a mask of suspicion. ‘I’m not going to hold it for you. That crosses the line. No matter how sick you feel. Lord or no, I—’

  ‘Where should I take the leak? By myself,’ I growled.

  ‘The bucket, as always?’ he asked me and pointed at a large vat by the window. ‘You have grown too fine to squat on a bucket now? Even the kings squat on their bucket. Some do it in full daylight, before guests. But you cannot? There is a rule to the mint, Lord, and as you have recently grown fond of rules and proper ways of doing things, then surely you know the bucket is there so nobody can stick gold up their damned anus. It’s a rule. Another one you have broken today. First, the coat. Then the bell. Then you give them beady wine and their work will be shitty.’ Gods, I thought. They were getting drunk. ‘And now you want to piss in peace? I will write a report. Or would if I could write.’

  ‘I’ve got issues with my bowels,’ I whispered to him. ‘Can I just step outside to—’

  He was shaking his head emphatically. ‘Nobody leaves, Lord Pimple Warts. The door is locked, and I shall open it when the time is right. I do obey the protocol, you see.’ He had a suspicious look on his wrinkled face.

  ‘Fine,’ I hissed, and then my eyes settled onto the hatch. There was no lock on it.

  ‘And you have not asked for it yet,’ Twitch whispered.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  He looked superbly shocked and shook his head. He went back to his chair and kept an eye on me, frowning. He must think I am testing him, I thought. He would have called the guards otherwise, already.

  The men eventually went to work, and I frowned as I tried to look official. Twitch was not eating, just glowering at me. The hypnotic clink of minting, the hammer’s bang, the clank of a coin hitting a bucket filled the air. It was a strangely comforting sound. The anvil and the hammer dies cut the ship and the sword on the golden flans and the artisans eyed their freshly minted gold with critical eyes though some had drunk too much wine, and I could see the result was not as good as it should be.

  I had to do it. I had to. I nodded at Twitch and got up. I walked around the tables. It was getting unbearably hot with my coat, and then I walked around, slathered in terrified sweat. Twitch was staring at me strangely and apparently, the real Naram had never walked around like I did. I picked up a coin to the silent resentment of the workers. One cursed, for apparently my unusual prowling made him ruin a flan. That, or the wine, which was apparently very strong. Naram was a drunk.

  I wandered to the windows to stare out at the fine sights of the northern mountains, and I swear I could nearly see the cascading waters near our hut. Then I walked to stand right next to the hatch, which I prodded with my foot. It was not locked. Everyone was glancing at me with apprehension, and so I sighed, prayed to the gods I did not believe were listening and drew the clay bottle.

  I accidentally dropped it.

  It didn’t break. I was frozen with shock and relief both.

  It rolled crazily across the floor, and I rushed after it. It disappeared under a table; I went after it on all fours, and there was a confused silence as I grabbed the damned thing from the feet of two of the workers. I got up, smiled and turned for the latch. I nearly screamed as I found Twitch was right there next to me. He scowled up at my face, his stubby nose near my belly, and he poked a finger at my chest. ‘Your pants are ripped. We all saw it.’

  ‘She was enthusiastic,’ I told him. ‘Ripped them off me, like she would peel an eel.’

  ‘Bloody liar. They are too small for you. You are a fake; I knew it.’

  ‘Knew what?’ I asked him, circumventing his rotund body, nearly falling over the hatch.

  ‘You are not him,’ he said dangerously, hissing softly as an ugly cat stalking a fat rat. ‘You have not told me how much your cut is today. You can make a mess of everything else, and I’d put that down to idiocy or being a drunk, feverish and having a bad rearing, but not that. You never forget your cut. No sir.’

  ‘My cut? It is my cut, and I decide when I ask for it,’ I stuttered in panic, for most of the artisans had turned to regard us. The clink of dies faltered.

  Twitch chuckled. ‘What is it? A mask?’ he said and tried to grasp at my face. I slapped his fingers off. ‘You never, ever forget to ask for your cut. It’s as likely as my mother holding her gas
. And she farts a lot. Loves it, you see.’

  ‘Get off me!’ I yelled. I pushed him away from me with surprising strength, for he rolled over a chair. I cursed the men in the room, all staring at me strangely. I prayed to the gods for deliverance, threw the clay jar high in the air and pulled open the hatch. It opened smoothly, chains rattling with some ingenious mechanism, and I nearly smashed my chin on it as it slid up. I dived into the hole, rolled on some stairs and saw there was a wooden cart on rails that led to the darkness. There were lights burning inside, torches. I dimly noted there were screams upstairs, and I jumped up, groping my way up to a chain to pull the hatch closed. It closed swiftly with a high-pitched rattle of chain, and I swore I could see yellowish smoke billowing for the hole.

  It closed.

  But not swiftly enough.

  Twitch managed to make it through. He flew in and hit me before the hatch was closed, and we fell on the rails. He was over me, tearing at me crazily with a maniacal, surprising strength, and I could not get him to remove his hands from my throat. ‘You excrement! I know you are not him, but it will give me satisfaction to tear the nasty mockery of a face out of your skull!’ He slapped his fingers on my face again, grasped my cheek and began to pull. It hurt like fire.

  ‘I am not—’ I wheezed, fighting to remove his hand from my throat.

  ‘I said I know.’ He giggled. ‘And don’t fight it. Die! And I’ll get a raise!’

  ‘I …’ I tried to speak but could not, for the small man was puffing, and I found I could not draw a breath. I struggled and fought as best I could, trying to wrest his surprisingly powerful fingers off my throat, but could not. I began to see black dots, and then the small man flew away from me with such power he hit the hatch, which blew back open before Twitch rolled back down to me. I turned to see a booted foot in front of my face, and a plate and dark chain armored man was staring down at me, leaning on a fabulous, unblemished two-handed sword. His helmet was black, red horsehair was hanging in front of my face. Damned Brother. Red Brother, I despaired.